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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494166">Purity Redux: Luna Sangerie</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sueric/pseuds/Sueric'>Sueric</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Purity [21]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Comedy, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fanfiction sequel, Fluff and Angst, Hentai, Psychological Drama, Purity, Romance, Sequel, ongoing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:34:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,215</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494166</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sueric/pseuds/Sueric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An ancient people, hidden in shadows and darkness, and the secrets revealed by the blood moon ...</p><p> </p><p>ONGOING</p><p>UNSOLICITED CRITIQUES WILL BE DELETED</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Taine Izanagi (Purity Universe)/Jericho Cioban (Purity Universe)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Purity [21]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/109694</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chastised</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~~<strong><em>Chapter</em></strong> <strong><em>One</em></strong>~~<br/>
~<strong><em> Chastised</em></strong>~</p><p>~<em>June 19, 2089</em>~</p><p>~<strong><em>o</em></strong>~</p><p> </p><p>It was a blood moon.</p><p>Staring out the window at the moon that loomed so low, seemed so close, almost close enough to touch, Jericho Cioban shivered in the murky darkness that blanketed everything in the room, the strange reddish pall that glowed and pulsed around her.  She could feel it, couldn’t she?  Only on nights like this one when the blood moon rose high . . . It was the only time she felt that thirst, and she swallowed hard, pulled the covers up a little tighter, a little higher . . . It was worse this time.  The moon was too big, too near, and the throbbing in her ears, so wickedly inviting . . .</p><p>Somewhere in the distance, the howl of a lone wolf echoed through the thick trees covering the valley between the three mountains.  It was a wild and lonely place, largely untouched by the world that surrounded it, with an isolated, one-lane road that led into the valley—a road that was constantly monitored, where her father’s guard deflected anyone who was not welcome—those outlanders who had the misfortune of venturing so deep.  The mountains, nestled in the midst of the Carpathians, were so remote, they had no names, though the locals in Treimunti—the quaint little village that lay just before of the smallest of the mountains—called the other two Tata and Mama—Father and Mother.  That smallest of the three mountains was her home.</p><p>The castle was built, deep into the mountain long, long ago, and her family had lived here forever, ruling over the quiet hamlet.  Very few outside of the family had ever been allowed entrance to the hallowed halls and rambling rooms, the meandering corridors with the thick and heavy doors—some of them forever locked, hiding secrets of their own . . . It was decorated in a false sense of splendor, an opulence that lay in waste, languishing for a day when she could share her beauty beyond the reaches of a select few beings—a day that would never, ever come.  Her ancestors were a secretive people, but, given their history, their distinct lineage, she supposed that wasn’t entirely surprising, either.  They’d retreated here, formed their own society, far away from the prying eyes and the snarling disdain of a world that didn’t understand them; the ones who had sought to destroy them.</p><p>She knew the tales.  She’d been told them all since she was too young to remember.  They served as warnings, as macabre promises meant to scare small children into compliance, maybe.  They’d come in the night—the snarling, the biting, the tearing of flesh—until the only one left was the Great Mama and her infant son—the one who would become the Great Tata . . . In exchange for her life, she’d promised—<em>sworn</em>—that she would never, ever become a drinker, but as the years passed into decades, and the decades became centuries, the Great Tata had disregarded the warnings, and, once he did, he’d come to understand that drinking was the root of their power.  The Great Tata had decided then that their people had not deserved what had happened, and he set out to rebuild the family—stronger than before.  He’d taken his own mother as a mate, forcing her to give birth to their four sons and one daughter.  From those people, the rest of the family had been forged, and everyone currently residing in the castle could trace their lineage back to those two: the Great Mama and the Great Tata . . .</p><p>Letting out a soft sigh, Jericho brushed aside the impromptu history lesson.  That was really not important, given that it changed nothing at all.  The Great Tata, however, had decided that they would make their home here, build a stronghold that not even those dogs could penetrate, and they’d built the castle, had welcomed the imposing protection of the mountains . . .</p><p>Still, how many times had she stared at those same mountains, wondered about the world that existed beyond all that she knew? There was more out there.  She knew that.  She’d been taught some geography by her procession of governesses, as well as reading, writing in both Romanian and in English, math and science . . . world history to some extent, though she suspected that it wasn’t all there was to it, either.  The scripts she studied never had pictures, and her lessons always seemed to end around a point in history that never extended past the 1800s.  Nearly three hundred years had passed since then, but she had no idea what had happened in the world during those missing years . . .</p><p>She sighed, rolling onto her side in the hammock-like bed, tucking her hands under her cheek as she continued to gaze at the foreboding full moon.  “<em>Luna sangerie</em> . . .” she murmured, platinum blond hair, spilling around her in a long and sleek sheet that cosseted her, that spilled over the side of the bed.  Normally, she braided it before retiring since she hated the tangles that always knotted her hair long before morning.  Tonight, however, her head hurt as much from the intricate coif that her maid had so meticulously arranged hours ago as it did from the formal announcement that had taken her by surprise . . .</p><p>The formal feast had felt so ominous.  All day long, she’d felt the strange sense that something was wrong, even if she had no real reason to think that at all, but as the hour had crept closer to supper, she’d come to realize that something was different this time.  Her father loved to throw lavish celebrations, even though those she called family weren’t huge in numbers—sixty, if one counted Jericho.  Even so, he did love to celebrate pretty much everything, and it didn’t really take much provocation for him, either.</p><p>It wasn’t really shocking that he’d wanted to host yet another feast.  After all, they had a visitor—an outlander—that she’d heard whispers of.  He was invited, they’d said.  Grigore himself had extended the invitation.  She hadn’t actually met the interloper.  He’d been in meetings with her father all day.  That her maid had presented her with a new dress for the evening hadn’t alarmed her—a ridiculous confection of yards and yards of pristine white brushed cotton and underlayers of organza and tulle—nor had the painstaking preparations of her hair and even a touch of makeup that Jericho normally avoided.</p><p>It really wasn’t until she was seated at the stone table between her brother and the stranger: a swarthy-skinned youkai that she was told hailed from Somalia.  Black hair, black eyes—void-like black . . .</p><p>‘He’s a drinker . . .’ <em>she thought, biting her lip as she kept her gaze trained on the table before her.  He didn’t look friendly, and his youki felt borderline hostile, but it was the way he’d looked her over that she had hated the most: the way he’d stared her, up and down, those touched black eyes that glowed almost unnaturally, narrowed, as though he were trying to see into her very soul—as though he were stripping her bare—and that feeling left her raw and unaccountably flustered, but not in a good or pleasant kind of way—in a way that felt as though she’d been completely violated and left to bleed on the floor</em>.</p><p><em>And then, she’d felt her half-brother’s steely gaze upon her: that critical eye that lingered somewhere between judgmental and apathetic.  She sat up a little straighter—shoulders back, hands resting in her lap—and she struggled to keep the miserable blush off her face at having been dismissed as wanting yet again.  Only then did Stefan Cioban’s attention shift away, much to Jericho’s relief</em>.</p><p><em>Grigore Cioban—her father—strode into the hall, smiling broadly as he raised his arms to greet his guests—his extended family—as a rousing cheer rose up amidst the clinks of crystal glasses, creaking chairs.  It was easy to see his good mood, but she knew well enough that the same near-happiness he exhibited was an emotion that tended to be quite fleeting with him.  All it took was a simple look, the sense that someone disagreed with one of his many edicts, to shatter it like glass on the cold obsidian floor</em>.</p><p>“<em>Friends!” he said, his booming voice, carrying to the farthest reaches of the hall, “We are here on this night to celebrate the long-awaited mating of Domnul Okeke and my daughter, Jericho!</em>”</p><p><em>She froze.  Everything around her froze.  Time froze</em>.</p><p><em>The blood in her body seemed to freeze, too</em>.</p><p><em>He had to wait for the cheers, for the merriment and explosion of bawdy well-wishes to quiet before he could go on.  “They will mate on the night of my daughter’s twenty-first birthday!  Let us celebrate!</em>”</p><p>The memory faded as Jericho shivered, snuggling down deeper into the relative safety of her blankets.  It really shouldn’t have been a shock to her.  She’d known that this was coming.  It was simply a matter of who her esteemed father would choose, but never in a million years had she thought that he would send her so far away, and, while that should have thrilled her—to get to see the world outside of the tiny hamlet that had been her home for so long . . .</p><p>It didn’t.</p><p>There was something cold about that man—her intended.  She’d sensed it from the beginning.  She’d wondered about it before, had even whispered about it with her dearest friend and cousin, Elena Donceanu.  Elena also happened to be Stefan’s half-sister, as well, but she did not hold that close of a bloodline to Jericho.  No, their bond was more of friends than relation, though they hadn’t had as much time to spend together since Elena had been mated to their third-cousin months ago.  It wasn’t a mating for love or even any trace hint of emotion.  It was a mating with one specific result in mind: the child she would birth.  Now, Elena was expecting her first child, and therefore, was constantly under scrutiny.  Jericho did not envy her that, though.  Women of the family who were impregnated tended to be treated as little more than living vessels, made to lay around, to rest and to nurture a child for the good of the family—for the strength of the family.  Gone were the days when Jericho and she would sneak out of the castle to wander the lands till the night had nearly fallen, only to run back home before that all-important dinner hour—the only time they’d truly be missed.</p><p>Men were the prize, the goal: men who could be trained, be indoctrinated into the family way . . . Women were necessary only to strengthen the bloodlines, and it had been so since the beginning.  Only after a woman bore a son would she be free to choose a real mate—if she weren’t the <em>stapan’s</em> ordained daughter.  Jericho, however, bore that dubious distinction.  That was why she was being bartered off.</p><p>She’d talked about it before with Elena in whispers and in secret—gathering flowers or herbs in the dense forest that surrounded Treimunti.  It seemed to her that people changed once they started drinking.  It wasn’t simply the physical changes, though those were the easiest to see: the absolute black hair and eyes, the pallor of the skin . . . It seemed to Jericho that the changes went deeper than that.  Somewhere in the depths of her memories, she vaguely recalled her mother, with her bright green eyes and her pale blonde hair—her happy and ready smile . . . After Grigore had convinced her to drink, something about her had changed.  She’d stopped seeking Jericho out to spend time with her, stopped caring about whether or not her daughter was truly happy.  She’d left her alone with her maids and governesses.</p><p>But her mother had chosen to slip back into the blur of the castle, more of an object or artifact than a real, living being.  She rarely spoke, just stared at those around her with a disturbingly knowing kind of look . . . Something about the changes had made Jericho reluctant to approach her.  It was almost as if, in her childish mind, her mother had simply ceased to exist, even though she still lived—was still living—within the confines of Castle Cioban . . .</p><p>Elena had agreed with her, though, in her case, she’d never actually had much if any interaction with her own mother.  She was a drinker long before Elena was born, and, once she’d learned that she’d given birth to another daughter, she had discarded Elena in much the same way that Jericho’s mother had after she’d changed.  Both girls had vowed never to do it: never to drink so that they wouldn’t change, too—a vow that was easy enough to keep.</p><p>Except for nights of the blood moon—nights like tonight . . .</p><p>That was ten years ago, though . . .</p><p>Pulling her hand out of the confines of her blankets, she slowly raised it, extended it toward the window, her skin glowing an eerie kind of crimson in the light of the blood moon.  As unsettling as it was to her, it comforted her, too.  Staring at her fingers, the harsh silhouette against the backdrop of the night, she sighed softly, trying to ignore the foreboding that had settled in the pit of her stomach like a stone.  Maybe things would look different to her in the morning.  Maybe . . .</p><p>‘<em>Six months . . .</em>’ she thought as she closed her eyes, as she drew her hand back under the blankets.  ‘<em>Six . . . months . . .</em>’</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sitting on the low stool, wrapped in the thin white cotton nightgown—the billowing sleeves, the lace cuffs and edges, almost Victorian in design—Jericho closed her eyes as the maid dragged the silver handled brush through her long locks.  The soothing action settled her, helped her to relax after a day spent, trying to come to grips with the changes that were coming at her so quickly.</p><p>She’d been congratulated so many times today that it was almost laughable—<em>almost</em>.  Too bad it made her want to cry.</p><p>She didn’t even know her intended’s first name.</p><p>All the women were already hard at work, planning and deliberating over Jericho’s mating gown.  It was a sacred tradition; one that she dreaded.  Seven days before the mating, the ritual bed would be placed in the midst of the great hall between the trestle tables.  It would be on display for thorough inspection, for the family members all to pray over and offer blessings for the male child they wished for.  The night of the mating, however . . .</p><p>She shivered, and the maid clucked her tongue before hurrying over to pull the window closed.  “You’ll catch a chill, <em>domnita</em> . . .” she scolded, carefully draping a long shawl over her shoulders.</p><p>“I’m fine,” she said, pasting on a smile that she was far from feeling.  “You can go.”</p><p>The maid scurried around, turning down the oil lamps, shaking out Jericho’s sheets and blankets, putting away the dress she’d removed to change into her nightgown.  Having accomplished all of that, she bowed low and slipped out of the bright and polished room, finally, blessedly, leaving Jericho alone.</p><p>She sighed, standing up slowly, wandering over to the window as she let the shawl drop to a heap on the white marble floor.</p><p>Pushing the window open, closing her eyes as the brisk night breeze pushed her hair back off of her face, she let out a deep breath.  So unpredictable, so wanton, allowed to go wherever it wished . . . That kind of freedom was something that Jericho had often wondered about, thought about what she’d do if she were granted the same kind of fluidity in her life.</p><p>But no, she’d known for so very long that her life really was secondary.  The well-being of the family—of the men—was the most important thing.  Men were stronger, less likely to yield to momentary whims—steadfast, they were.  The first line of defense, she’d been told.  They were bigger, faster, stronger . . . The men took care of the women, and the women should be grateful, satisfied to be taken care of in such a way that they need never want for a thing as long as they obeyed men’s orders.</p><p>And her father, of course, was the man amongst men: the top and the pinnacle.  Many a time had she been told that he had descended from the very first—the Great Tata . . . the Great Mama—that his blood had never been tainted with that of another youkai that wasn’t one of them, or by that of the humans they governed.  Her father believed that their kind should never suffer to blend their pure blood with any other tainted creature.  It was why, he said, the first ones had failed, why they adhered to the ancient traditions now, the old ways, keeping to themselves, rejecting any attempts to try to blend in.</p><p>The mating, for example, was one of their old traditions, and one that Jericho had always dreaded.  Being forced to couple, there, in the midst of the merriment as others looked on, as they offered their bawdy advice, as they came in close to watch, to observe—to touch—believing that laying their hands on the mating couple would provide them fertility and balance in their own lives . . .</p><p>And there she’d be, dressed in lace and bows with tiny flowers in her hair, forced to lay on that bed as everyone came around, as they all inspected her, and if, for some reason, she was deemed lacking?  Then her mate could reject her, and if that happened . . .</p><p>Women who were deemed imperfect were relegated to serve the family.  Their blood bonds were severed, never to be mentioned again, their names, scrubbed from the great book where Grigore kept the dates of every child’s birth, the twisting and convoluted ties of the family.  One of the maids, she’d seen years ago, had been rejected for bearing a mole on her shoulder.</p><p>She was now Jericho’s maid—a maid who owned no name.  She’d been forced to relinquish that luxury when she was found lacking . . .</p><p>The door opened.  She felt it more than heard it.  She sensed it more than saw it.  It didn’t surprise her.  In a way, she’d expected that she’d be interrupted before she ever made it to bed, but she’d expected to have drawn her father’s irritation, perhaps even her brother’s.  The youki that brushed against hers, though, drew her up straight, pulled her around to face the intruder, as she hoped that she looked calmer than she felt on the inside . . .</p><p>“You did not ask me if it was all right for you to skip the evening meal.”</p><p>Biting her lip, she grabbed at her waning bravado, ignored the urge to retrieve the shawl off the floor.  “My apologies, Domnul Okeke . . . I . . . I felt a little faint . . .”</p><p>He stared at her for a long moment, eyes so dark that they were little more than pinpoints of light.  Slowly, deliberately, he shuffled toward her, his hands, dug deep into the pockets of the black pants he wore—pants that were shades lighter than his hair, his eyes.</p><p>She gasped, head snapping to the side when he backhanded her across the face, as she crumpled to the floor, catching herself on her hands, her wrists exploding in a violent wash of pain at the sheer force of his strike.  Yanking her by the upper arm to her feet, he grabbed her other one and shook her hard.  “You will not seek to humiliate me before your family,” he said, his tone low, almost a caress, that turned her stomach as she stubbornly willed herself not to cry.</p><p>Slowly shifting her gaze to the side, to meet his without turning her head, she swallowed a mouthful of blood—her own blood.  “And will you dictate what I wear every day?  Will you tell me what I am allowed to think?  What I am allowed to say?”</p><p>His hands dug into her arms as he dealt her another hard shake.  “Do I need to, Jericho?” he countered.</p><p>It didn’t go unnoticed that he hadn’t even afforded her the dignity of the proper form of address, but she ignored that.  “I’m sorry I missed supper,” she forced herself to say.  “It wasn’t my intent to dishonor you.”</p><p>Somehow, those words seemed to do the trick as his anger seemed to dissolve in an instant, in a flash, in a blink of an eye. Letting go of her arms, he suddenly dragged her against his chest, holding her in such a stifling way.  She didn’t fight him.  Too frightened of his volatile nature, she stood, stiff, still . . . “You should try to get to know me, you know,” he admonished.  “I’m a fair man—a decent man.  I’ll treat you as well as you treat me.”</p><p>For some reason, his words sounded like more of a threat than a promise in her ears.  Cupping her face in his hand, he tilted her head, forced her to look at him.  Then he chuckled.  “Your father tells me that you refuse to drink.  Is that so, Jericho?”</p><p>Ignoring the painful throbbing in her cheek, she shook her head.  “I don’t need to,” she told him, quietly, secretly pleased that her voice didn’t tremble.  “I won’t.”</p><p>His strong features shifted, contorted in a show of mock surprise.  Thick black eyebrows drawing together over those dull black eyes—eyes that looked more like holes in his face than they did, actual eyes . . . broad nose, nostrils flaring slightly, thick lips—the lower one a little pinker, a touch lighter than the top one . . . He scowled at her for a long moment.  “And if I say you’ll do it?” he challenged.</p><p>“I don’t need to,” she replied quietly.  “I’m just a woman.  Men are the ones who need it—the strength to protect us . . .”</p><p>“You <em>want</em> my protection, don’t you?” he growled, ducking in low, his lips lingering just above hers.  She could smell the bitter and metallic kind of stench—that mineral stink . . . He’d just drank, hadn’t he?  She flinched inwardly as her stomach flopped over, as bile rose, thick and harsh, in her throat.  “I think . . . I think I’ll like possessing you,” he went on, lips brushing against hers with every word he spoke.  “You’ll learn . . . It’s easy, you realize.  You please me, and I’ll please you.  It’s as simple—and as complex—as you want to make it . . . But don’t test me.  I’m not nearly tolerant enough for that.”</p><p>She swallowed hard, pushed against him as much as she dared.  His arms tightened in response, and she flinched.  “You’re hurting me,” she told him, which was really only half a lie.  His youki chafed against her, leaving her skin feeling raw and abused.</p><p>“Don’t lie.  I know damn well I’m not.  I <em>could</em>, but I’m not,” he warned her sharply, the caress of his hand against her cheek, a subtle warning.  “Why don’t you be a good girl and drink?  I have no use for you if you’re weak.”</p><p>She shook her head.  “I . . . I won’t,” she insisted.</p><p>Suddenly, he chuckled.  The sound of it sent a shiver up her spine, a cold chill, straight to her heart.  “You’ll drink, Jericho,” he said.  “You will.”</p><p>And then, his lips fell on hers with a barely contained brutality . . . No love, no consideration, only a will to dominate, to suppress her own . . . Those lips, crushing hers, smashing hers—devouring hers . . .</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Stumbling down the steps of the grand staircase that extended up the center of the great annex, Jericho had wanted to stay in her room, especially after seeing the huge bruise that covered nearly half of her face.</p><p>She’d no sooner stepped off of the bottom step than she’d felt the hand on her upper arm, stopping her.  Stefan reached out, grasped her chin, turned her face up to inspect her, his fathomless black eyes narrowing thoughtfully, his brows slanting together.  Devastatingly handsome, she supposed, but in a cold and haunting kind of way—pale skin, hair beyond ebony—the same fine bone structure that gave way to the leanness of face that bordered upon gaunt . . . Tragically patrician, she supposed . . . She remembered a painting she’d seen.  It was hanging in their father’s chambers, a place she’d only been one time.  Back then, she’d been told that that the painting was of Stefan, painted days before he’d drank for the first time . . . That same brother had the same blue eyes that Elena possessed—eyes as blue as the endless summer sky . . . Cinnamon hair, the color of the tree and the precious, precious bark . . . All of that was gone now, though from time to time, Jericho couldn’t help but wonder just what Stefan had been like before the change . . .</p><p>“You should know better than to provoke your intended,” he told her, letting his hands drop away from her, his tone full of a bland kind of arrogance, as though he really did think she should have realized it long ago.  “If you don’t want to be disciplined, don’t cause trouble.”</p><p>She said nothing as he left her there, heading up the stairs to the first landing and the great doors of their father’s office.  The heavy thud of the doors closing behind him echoed through the open air, and she sighed.</p><p>Stepping into the great hall, she stopped short, blinking when she saw the gathering of women near the small window.  Piles of bolts of fabrics were laid out—precious things that were brought up from the stores underground—the most rare and beautiful ones, all brought out to be used in the design of Jericho’s mating outfit as well as the special dresses that she’d wear as she traveled to her new home afterward . . .</p><p>Those fabrics in particular were only ever used for the <em>stapan’s</em> daughter from an ordained union.  He had other children, yes, but none of them were considered to be in the same line as Jericho was—not even Stefan, who was her father’s recognized heir.  But his mother was one of the family, and that made him a lesser line, despite the fact that Grigore had named Stefan his heir long ago.  Jericho’s mother was her father’s recognized and ordained mate, and she was the only child to come from that union . . .</p><p>It made her a prime bargaining chip, likely used in the trade game to bring in an ordained mate for Stefan . . .</p><p>“Oh, Jericho!  Come!” Cosmina, Stefan and Elena’s mother, called.  Her smile was bright, welcoming, and, despite her own misgivings, Jericho smothered a sigh and headed toward the women.  One by one, their chattering ceased as they all got a good look at Jericho’s face.  Most of them dropped their gazes to the sketches and patterns they were planning.  Cosmina, however, stood up quickly, rounding the trestle table to hurry over to her side.  “So, he has a temper, does he?” she murmured, gently turning Jericho’s face from side to side.  “I’ll fetch a poultice for you.  Sit!  Sit!”  She whirled away, clapping her hands as a maid stepped forward.  “Tea for <em>domnita</em>,” she commanded before slipping out of the room and toward the staircase.</p><p>She smiled wanly, nodded at some of the sketches that the women shoved at her, hoping that she was showing a proper amount of enthusiasm when she really didn’t care at all.</p><p>A strange sense crept over her, as though she were being watched.  Shifting her gaze around as cautiously as she could, she frowned when she spotted her mother, sitting over in a corner, her head lowered, staring at her . . .</p><p>Without thinking about it, she rose, smoothing the skirt of the white cotton dress as she headed toward the woman.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her.  She never attended the feasts that her father was so fond of.  Usually, she kept to her own quarters; rarely did she answer the door.  The cold beauty of the woman was both remarkable and frightening, and she didn’t look away as Jericho knelt before her.  “Doamna Mama . . .?”</p><p>For a long moment, she said nothing.  Hair pulled up and back in a careful chignon, she lifted a frail-looking hand to brush back an errant lock that had escaped her careful coif.  That hand paused in mid-air, slowly reached out, cradling Jericho’s bruised cheek.  “He’s a monster—a <em>devil</em>,” she murmured, leaning in so that only Jericho could hear her words.  “He’ll destroy you if you let him.”</p><p>Slipping her hand behind Jericho’s head to draw her closer, as though she meant to embrace her, she whispered in her daughter’s ear.  “Look under your pillow, Jericho.  Keep it with you.”</p><p>Letting go of her, she sat back for a moment, her gaze shifting to the side.  Then she stood up, crossed the floor and disappeared up the stairs, leaving Jericho alone to figure out, just what she meant . . .</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><em>So, I felt like posting this.  No real reason, just because.  I don’t know that I’ll post more of this because I need to finish some other things first: things like <strong>Cacophony</strong>, <strong>Purity</strong> <strong>10</strong>, <strong>Purity</strong> <strong>Zero</strong> … But this one just keeps needling me, so … Anyway, if you choose to read this so far, then I hope you like it.  It’s slightly different, but there’s a whole lot of stuff that’s about to go down … when I get the other things finished, anyway</em>.</p><p><em>In Romania, people are addressed by their honorific title ("Domnul" for Mr. and "Doamna" for Mrs.) and their surname.  Domnul is not Sefu Okeke’s first name</em>.<br/><strong><em>Stapan</em></strong><em>: Romanian “Lord” … Ruler of the family</em>.<br/><strong><em>Domnita</em></strong><em>: Romanian “milady</em>”.</p><p>== <strong><em>== == == == == == == ==</em></strong> ==</p><p><strong><em>Final</em></strong><em> <strong>Thought</strong> <strong>from</strong></em> <strong><em>Jericho</em></strong>:<br/>…<em> Mating </em>…</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Enigma</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~~<strong><em>Chapter</em></strong> <strong><em>Two</em></strong>~~<br/>~<strong><em> Enigma</em></strong>~</p><p>~<em>August 14, 2089</em>~</p><p> </p><p>~<strong><em>o</em></strong>~</p><p> </p><p>The soft nicker of the white palfrey echoed in Jericho’s ears as she nudged the horse a little faster, as she closed her eyes, savoring the feel of the brisk morning air on her cheeks, in her hair, on her skin.  It was the first time since the announcement of her impending mating two months ago that she felt almost free, like she could breathe, even if it wasn’t going to last long—probably just long enough for Domnul Okeke to discover that she’d slipped out on her own . . .</p><p>Opening her eyes, casting a rather nervous glance over her shoulder, she carefully scanned the horizon for the one man she really didn’t want to see.  Sefu Okeke had made it clear early on that she was not permitted to do a thing without his permission and leaving the safety of Castle Cioban was not something that he would ever allow—which was why she hadn’t bothered to ask him.</p><p>It was preposterous, though, in her opinion.  She was perfectly safe here, on these lands—her family’s land.  There was no one here who would dare accost her.  The villagers knew better, and there were never any outlanders allowed into the valley other than Domnul Okeke, anyway.</p><p>She sighed, unconsciously adjusting the hidden dagger she wore under the colorful apron over her wide, white cotton skirt.  It was a gift from her mother.  She’d left it under Jericho’s pillow the morning after her mating was announced.  The obsidian stone blade was razor sharp, but only about six inches in blade length, affixed to a beautifully bejeweled hilt—most certainly a decoration piece, even if it was forged from the stone that was rumored to be one of the most formidable and feared weapons when it came to their kind.  She really wasn’t sure why her mother wanted her to have it.  If anyone found out that she’d given it to her, the repercussions would potentially be huge.  After all, there would be some very harsh reprisals if she did try to wield it against any of the men, even if it were forged from something more common, but obsidian . . .? Even so, Jericho had to admit that it did help to bolster her courage, especially at moments when she tried to face down her intended mate . . .</p><p>Every night, it was the same farce—the same scene that played out, over and over again.  Domnul Okeke knocked on her door to escort her down to supper, his arm around her waist in a wholly possessive kind of display.  He kept her there all evening, and even feigning fatigue didn’t seem to work.  It was annoying at worst, but it was easy enough to endure.</p><p>It wasn’t until he escorted her back to her chambers that the upbraiding always began.  Maybe she hadn’t eaten enough or she ate too much . . . Perhaps she’d looked preoccupied all evening or she hadn’t smiled quite enough.  She smiled too much, was encouraging attention from the other men—entirely ridiculous, given that she was related to every last one of them . . . Even so, it seemed that, no matter what she did or didn’t do, it was never right.  If she were lucky, he’d just slap her a few times.</p><p>But, more and more often of late, those altercations had come with a heady undertone—of frightening things that she really didn’t want to dwell upon.  The rough and brutal kisses as he grasped her breasts and squeeze hard enough to bring tears to her eyes that she stubbornly blinked back . . .</p><p>Last night, he’d grabbed her crotch, digging his claws in deep enough that they poked through the many layers of skirt and slips that she wore.  He’d stopped just before drawing blood, but that really hadn’t helped.  In the end, she’d managed to wait until he’d finally—blessedly—left her before breaking down in a sobbing heap, her face buried deep in her pillows to stifle the sounds . . .</p><p>He wasn’t going to stop, and she knew it.  As the painful realization that this was the rest of her life seemed to unfurl before her, she swallowed hard, flicked the reins to move the palfrey along, as though she thought that she could outrun it, escape it . . . Even as the thickening hand of fate slowly closed in on her . . .</p><p>It had occurred to her before that maybe she ought to try to escape, but as quickly as the idea had occurred to her, she’d let it go just as fast.  Even if she did know what to expect outside of the valley—and that idea was daunting enough—she’d never actually make it past the guards, either.  The only real way out of the valley was not via that road, and that would entail climbing those mountains—something she really couldn’t do . . .</p><p>She was trapped, and she knew it.  The only way that she’d ever survive was to go along with the mating that she simply didn’t want—that she <em>feared</em>.</p><p>It reminded her of the last time she’d spoken to Elena in private.  Days after her forced mating with their third-cousin, and the girls had managed to slip away from the ladies that were hovering close, determined to make sure that the newest offspring was well-cared-for from the onset . . . The girls had ducked into one of the storerooms just below the main level, sneaking out of the tiny hole that had been dug through the side of the mountain and was kept hidden behind a few old wooden crates that, as far as Jericho knew, had never been moved before.  It was an ancient passage that had been all but forgotten over the years.  She and Elena had discovered it one winter afternoon when they were told they had to stay within the castle during one of the regular storms that blew in so quickly, down off the mountains . . .</p><p>That day, though, the two had crawled through that long and winding cave—it wasn’t nearly high enough to stand in—and outside into the brisk morning light.  They’d stolen away to the crystalline stream that flowed south of the castle . . . They’d reached the sanctuary of a thick briar patch and had crawled into it—a childhood hiding place where they couldn’t be seen as long as they remained back away from the stingy opening that faced the water’s edge . . .</p><p>“<em>Are you feeling all right?” she asked when Elena grimaced slightly.  Her face was pale, drawn, her normally bright and shining hair, a little dull, a little stringy</em>.</p><p>“<em>I’m fine,” she insisted, managing a thin smile that Jericho figured was entirely for her benefit.  “Just a little queasy . . . Morning sickness, I guess</em> . . .”</p><p><em>Jericho frowned.  “Is . . . Is it . . . bad . . .?</em>”</p><p>“<em>Oh, not so bad,” Elena replied.  “It normally goes away around noon</em> . . .”</p><p><em>Shaking her head, Jericho leaned to the side, tucking her legs up beside her.  “No, I . . . I mean . . . you know.  Did the mating . . . hurt?</em>”</p><p><em>A strange little flicker of something dark flitted over Elena’s pretty face before she managed to smile once more.  “It . . . It wasn’t so bad,” she said with a little shrug.  “They said it wouldn’t hurt too much as long as you relax</em> . . .”</p><p><em>Jericho winced.  “Relax?  How are you supposed to do that when you’re made to breed right there in the middle of the hall?</em>”</p><p><em>Elena’s strained smiled vanished, and she sighed, bunching up her shoulders under the pristine fabric of the white dress.  “Jericho . . . It . . . It hurt so bad,” she whispered, her gaze lingering on her hands, clasped in her lap, her fingers trembling like a new leaf in the bitter wind . . . “It . . . It felt like I was being ripped in half, but . . . But you can’t make a sound, you know?  Because if you make a sound, then maybe you’re not good enough—strong enough</em> . . .”</p><p><em>Jericho reached over, hugged Elena tight.  It was all she could do as she grimaced, as she hated the pain that Elena didn’t try to hide from her.  “But you’re okay now, right?” she asked, trying to lift Elena’s spirits—trying to remind her that the worst of it was behind her . . . “That’s all over now, and</em>—”</p><p><em>Elena uttered a sharp laugh—an almost hysterical kind of screech—as she pushed Jericho away almost roughly—as she lifted her tear-stained eyes with a glower full of disdain, full of anger . . . and hatred.  “You don’t know!  How could you?  You stupid, coddled bitch!  You have no idea what it’s like—what everything is like!  You . . . You know </em>nothing!”<em> she hissed, furiously shaking her head.  “He comes to me every night—</em>every night<em>—time and again, over and over . . . Forcing me . . . using me . . . Because he </em>can<em>, you see?  Because he’s already marked me as his own by forcing his baby into my body!  And I’ve thought about it, you know?  We’re all related, aren’t we?  To some extent or another, we’re related, and that . . . that breeds out in the bone, doesn’t it?  And just what, exactly, does it make us . . .?</em>”</p><p>“<em>Elena . . .” Jericho whispered, shaking her head, as though to refute her friend’s harsh words.  “I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know</em> . . .”</p><p><em>Face crumpling as she buried her face in her hands, as she gasped out a choked sob that she fought to control but ultimately could not, she broke down in tears as Jericho helplessly looked on.  She wasn’t entirely certain that Elena would welcome her attempts to comfort her, and, in the end, she bit her lip, blinked fast to stave back tears of her own</em> . . .</p><p>Heaving a sigh as she blinked away the lingering remnants of that memory, as harsh and bitter now as it was months ago, Jericho nudged the palfrey a little faster as the wind smacked into her face, blew her hair back in a satin wave of platinum that shone in the late summer sunlight.  The billowing sleeves of her blouse snapped and whipped around her, her skirt, hiking up her thighs since she sat astride instead of the more appropriate side-saddle way that she’d been taught . . .</p><p>She heard the approach of hooves mere moments before she gasped, as she was yanked off her horse by a steely strong pair of arms that locked around her waist so tightly that it forced the breath out of her.  She felt the flustered sensation of falling—of toppling—of being shoved down.  Landing hard with a gasp that cut off as the unyielding body landed on her almost instantly, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t comprehend a thing.  Body kicking into survival mode, she shoved at the man who had unseated her, only to squeak out the most pitiful half-shriek when the solid hand struck her cheek, snapped her face to the side.  The pain that exploded was unlike anything she’d ever felt before—harder than any other time she’d been hit.  Blood pooled instantly in her mouth, choking her as she lay there, stunned.  Before she could even begin to process what was happening, a merciless hand gripped her face, squeezed her cheeks hard, forced tears out of the corners of her eyes as he yanked her head, as he forced her to look at him.</p><p>“Where do you think you’re going?” Domnul Okeke demanded, growling between his clenched teeth.  Emphasizing his question with a series of rough shakes, he let go of her long enough to slam his fist into the side of her head when she didn’t answer him right away.  “Haven’t I told you that you’re only allowed where I say you can go?”</p><p>Too dazed to cry, too dazed to think—too dazed to do a thing but to lie there, under him, as he beat on her with his fists—fists to her face, to her arms and her chest, her stomach . . . Berating her the entire time about the errors of her ways—everything . . . <em>everything</em> . . .</p><p>But suddenly, Domnul Okeke stopped, and a moment later, his weight left her.  Jericho couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe as pain in her ribs very nearly made her pass out.  She heard male voices, but they didn’t make sense to her.  She was trapped in a dazed kind of stupor that did its best to cosset her, and she welcomed the falling darkness.</p><p>“What did she do that you think warranted this kind of a beating?” Stefan Cioban asked, his voice, oddly devoid of actual emotion as he hunkered down beside Jericho and turned her face from side to side.  Eyes both blackened and swollen, nose bleeding and bruised—likely broken—lips, fattened and split as blood dripped down her reddened jaw . . . the damage he could see, anyway . . .</p><p>Okeke grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand since Stefan had dealt him a hard left hook when he’d hauled him off of Jericho.  “Isn’t it obvious?  She’s out here, unescorted—a foolish thing for her to do.  Do you and your father allow her such freedoms?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t know.  I’m not her keeper,” Stefan replied evenly, turning his head, his eyes narrowing—the only show of emotion on his otherwise stoic face.  “Is it your intention to ruin your investment before you even mate her?”</p><p>Okeke looked distinctly uncomfortable for a moment before he managed to gather his remaining bravado once more.  “You know as well as I do that the mating is as good as done.  I already paid your father the ridiculous bride-price he demanded.”</p><p>Stefan considered that as he pushed himself to his feet, as he drew himself up to his full height in order to peer down at Okeke.  “Abuse her again, and you’ll find out just how fast your contract can be destroyed, Domnul Okeke.  If I see any more proof of your excessive . . . <em>discipline</em> . . . on her, you’ll be returning to your people without a mate and without the money you’ve already paid.”</p><p>Satisfied that he’d made his point, he turned around once more, carefully lifted Jericho’s unconscious body, and headed back in the direction of Castle Cioban.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sitting on the low bench as the maid carefully brushed her hair, Jericho tried to avoid her reflection in the mirror hanging over the small dressing table.  She’d very nearly cried yesterday when she’d gotten a good look at herself after nearly a week, confined to her bed.  Eyes still smudged with purplish shadows at the inner corners that faded out into a mottled shade of yellow, nose still slightly swollen and bruised, her jaw still bearing the trace mottling of discoloration, she looked . . . Well, terrible, really . . .</p><p>Which wasn’t nearly as bad as the rest of her body felt, either.  It was a slight miracle that her ribs weren’t broken—just severely bruised, the physician had said.  Her whole body from the waist up was nothing but a network of bruising . . .</p><p>At least, she could move around today, though, with minimal discomfort.  Twinges and aches, she could live with.  She wanted to get out of her room.  Time moved so horribly slow when there was nothing to do but sleep.</p><p>She tried not to think about the last week—most especially, the altercation with Domnul Okeke.  Maybe she was wrong for sneaking out of the castle, but his reaction . . . Was that really something that could be considered normal?  And if it was, then just what kind of existence was she really going to have?  As the days ticked away, bringing the fateful and loathsome day of her mating closer, just what did she really have to look forward to?</p><p>That question was enough to send a very distinct shiver up her spine.</p><p>She sat still as the maid braided her hair, twisted it up in an intricate knot and secured it in place.  Then she managed to stand without flinching, turning away to hide the grimace on her face as she reached behind herself to tie the dark blue apron around her waist.</p><p>The sound of women’s laughter drifted out of the great hall before she stepped off the staircase, and Jericho bit her lip.  It was comforting, wasn’t it?  A sound that she’d grown up hearing . . . As a child, she’d sat on the floor, playing with her dolls, maybe learning how to sew a dress for her or knitting a tiny blanket for her from the handmade wool yarn that she’d helped wash and card and spin.  The constant through all of that was the blended sound of the women’s laughter, of their gentle chatter as they sewed or crocheted or tatted.  A couple of them would sit at the huge loom near the back corner of the room, weaving cloth for their common dresses—always white, either cotton or wool or even linen . . . Back then, Elena and she would play for hours, giggling over silly things, watching as the men ventured into and out of the great hall, though none of them ever stayed for long.</p><p>They all had their tasks.  The men usually went hunting for smallish game or fish from the stream near the thicket.  The young boys were usually sent out to tend the herd of sheep and other grazing animals that they raised.  In the afternoons, they switched with the young girls so that they could have their school lessons.  Jericho was the only one of the females who had been educated.  The rest of them weren’t since their lives were all devoted to the birthing and raising of the young.  She was special as the stapan’s ordained daughter, but even so, she’d passed along her lessons to Elena, as well . . . And, looking back, maybe that had been a colossal mistake, too.  Maybe if she hadn’t gone out of her way to share the things that she was taught, maybe it would have been easier for Elena in the long run.  Maybe, had she been left to the simple belief that there wasn’t really anything else out there, maybe it wouldn’t have raised the questions that plagued Elena’s heart . . .</p><p>But they said that hindsight was always twenty-twenty.  If only . . .</p><p>Stepping into the great hall, though, Jericho stopped short, her eyes flaring wide, shaking her head slowly as she struggled to make sense of who she saw—of <em>what</em> she saw . . .</p><p>It took a moment for Jericho to process exactly what she was seeing.  It felt as though her brain had very deliberately slowed to a crawl . . . Elena sat amongst the women, her belly now horribly distended.  That wasn’t what confused and discomfited her.  Gone were Elena’s golden hair, her light blue eyes, replaced by hair and eyes that were darker than black—the color of void—and that repulsive sense of emptiness in her very gaze and expressionless, pale face . . .</p><p>She stuck out like a ghastly beacon in the midst of the women who had opted never to drink.  Most of the women who did refused to join in with the merriment that normally encompassed the great hall.</p><p>To her surprise, though, Elena slowly stood, her usual gait altered by the additional weight she was carrying.  The other women called out to her, asking her if she needed help, if she was all right.  Elena ignored them, her expression still as empty as it was before as she slowly made her way over to Jericho.</p><p>“I thought you should know,” she said without preamble—without a change in tone or inflection.  “You should drink, Jericho.  It makes the whole rutting thing far more bearable.”</p><p>Jericho frowned, slowly shaking her head, as Elena neatly stepped around her, sweeping over to the staircase.  Standing there, watching as her childhood friend slipped away, Jericho couldn’t help the bitter pang that shot through her, the unbidden and unwelcome sense that she’d just lost something irreplaceable—a friend that she’d never get back again . . .</p><p>“<em>It makes the whole rutting thing far more bearable . . .</em>”</p><p>She grimaced.  That was why . . .</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Jericho set the book on the nightstand and leaned over to turn the lamp down before blowing down the glass chimney to extinguish the flame.</p><p>It had been a long day—a trying day.</p><p>She hadn’t seen Elena again after she’d returned to her chambers above.  It hadn’t done a thing to quell the questions that kept churning around in her head, though.  Was it all truly so bad that a lifetime of forced apathy was preferable?  Elena seemed to believe that it was—Elena, who had made that vow with her so long ago, that neither of them would ever succumb to the lure of the drink . . .</p><p>“<em>It makes the whole rutting thing far more bearable . . .</em>”</p><p>Just the memory of those cold words cut right through her, not unlike the feel of a physical slap, of a punch to the gut.  Or maybe . . .</p><p>Maybe that would have been preferable.  After all, the pain of those sorts of things faded, given time.  They healed, and they disappeared, didn’t they?  But Elena . . . There was no going back, not ever . . .</p><p>She’d excused herself shortly after supper was over during that time when the tankards of ale were brought out.  The men would sit up much later, talking and laughing and discussing things that were relegated to the realm of men’s business.  The women were not offered the beer, but sometimes, they’d drink wine as they resumed their sewing or knitting or other things over in the corner of the great hall.</p><p>Since Domnul Okeke’s arrival, she normally had to endure, remaining in her seat until he allowed her to leave it, only to have him escort her to her chambers for his corrections on her behavior and then, after he’d finished verbally tearing her to shreds, he’d force his kisses upon her—those horrible and brutal things . . .</p><p>Tonight, however, her entire body was aching, reminding her that maybe she’d overstepped her own limitations for one day.  Domnul Okeke had actually been a little less critical of her, or maybe he’d simply realized that she wasn’t feeling up to it, and he’d excused her.</p><p>She supposed that she ought to thank him.  Somehow, she simply couldn’t quite muster the strength to do so, but she had managed to bob in a slight curtsy before finally, blessedly, slipping out of the great hall and up the stairs.</p><p>Letting out a deep breath as she let her eyes drift closed, as she snuggled down a little deeper in her blankets, she slowly relaxed, slipping her hand up under her pillow, idly fingering the hilt of the beautiful obsidian dagger.  Somehow, it lent her a small sense of security, even if that sense was an illusory feeling, at best.</p><p>She was almost asleep when the door opened.  Her eyes flashed open immediately, even though she didn’t move in inch.  Domnul Okeke’s perfidious youki filled her room like a choking cloud of blackness, and even without moving, she could smell the reek of him—that awful yet heady stench that she both loathed—and somehow, craved.  It was him, no—it was the perfume of the drink that clung to him, that called to her . . .</p><p>The sound of the door closing echoed like a death knell, and she gasped a moment later when he grasped her shoulder, shoved her onto her back, dropped onto her, his weight, forcing the wind out of her.</p><p>Her brain told her not to fight him.  He’d get whatever it was out of his system faster if she just didn’t fight.  He kissed her hard, deep, forcing his tongue into her mouth, between her lips and teeth as she whimpered and pushed against his shoulders.</p><p>The taste of it was almost too much for her to bear as a moment later, the horrible gush, the thick and cloying inundation filled her mouth.  He was trying to force her to drink, wasn’t he?  Her body reacted violently, her stomach lurching in an insidious kind of way, and she barely managed to turn her head away seconds before she vomited.</p><p>“You stupid bitch!” Domnul Okeke growled, his blackened eyes, little more than voided hollows where his soul should have been.  He started to raise his hand, meant to slap her across the face, but something stopped him, and, with a loud snarl, he grasped the front of her nightgown—and yanked hard.</p><p>The sound of the fabric, giving way to his claws set off a trembling panic that surged through her with a force, the likes of which she had never felt before.</p><p>“Lay still!” he snarled, digging his claws, deep into the sensitive tissue of her breast.  She yelped in pain as the smell of her own blood hit her hard, and she went still.  Satisfied that he’d made his point, he rolled to the side, far enough to work the fastenings of his pants.  She felt the hotness of his penis against the bared flesh of her thighs as he reached down, yanked her legs apart.</p><p>And the hurtful press of that hard thing against the tender skin between her legs was enough to unleash the visceral need to protect himself.  Wrapping her hand around the hilt of the dagger hidden under her pillow, she unleashed an angry and frightened scream, bringing the weapon up and around, burying it in to the hilt, deep into his shoulder.</p><p>The gush of his blood, dripping down on her shocked her, even as he leaned back, as his eyes widened, then narrowed, as he turned his head almost comically slowly, staring at the dagger that stuck out of his shoulder as her hand fell back against the pillow once more.</p><p>His irate growl started low in his throat with the brandishing of fangs, flashing in the morbid moonlight that spilled through the window in such an innocuous kind of way.  He stumbled to his feet, his growl growing louder, longer, fiercer, and she lay, frozen to the spot, even as her brain screeched at her, ‘<em>What have you done?  Jericho, what the hell have you done?</em>’</p><p>He moved in a blur that she barely saw, his foot kicking up and out at her hammock pad.  The thickness of his boot struck her in the small of the back, sending her flying up into the air, only to fall in a heap on the hard marble floor.  The boot struck her in the ribs, in the hip, in her arm when she tried pathetically to block him.  Over and over again as she tried to cry out but couldn’t draw breath . . .</p><p>The last thing she remembered before the world went dark was the maniacal grin on his face—and the pink-tinged line of spittle that slowly dripped from his lips . . .</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><em>There are actually four chapters completed</em> …</p><p>== <strong><em>== == == == == == == ==</em></strong> ==</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Reviewers</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>==========</p><p><strong><em>MMorg<br/></em></strong>— — —</p><p>==========</p><p><strong><em>AO3<br/></em></strong>minthegreen ——— Calvarez ——— Cutechick18</p><p>==========</p><p><strong><em>Final</em></strong><em> <strong>Thought</strong> <strong>from</strong></em> <strong><em>Jericho</em></strong>:<br/>…<em> But he … he would have </em>…</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Misgivings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~~<strong><em>Chapter</em></strong> <strong><em>Three</em></strong>~~<br/>~<strong><em> Misgivings</em></strong>~</p><p>~<em>December 1, 2089</em>~</p><p> </p><p>~<strong><em>o</em></strong>~</p><p> </p><p>Holding out her hand, ignoring the bitter cold wind that numbed her fingers, bone deep, in a matter of seconds, Jericho watched as the fat flakes of snow lit on her skin, lingered for an instant, a breath, before melting away as though it had never existed at all.</p><p>There was a certain level of irony to that thought . . .</p><p>Just over two days.</p><p>The ritual mating bed was already set up in the great hall, all bedecked in brand new sheets, in yards of handmade lace.  The stark, black wrought iron frame was softened by the beautiful fabrics, the lace trimmings, the netting and the ballooned poofs, tied around the tall posts and secured with white satin ribbons.  The whole thing was a labor of love, a source of pride, from the women.  Even so, it made Jericho feel just a little worse when she considered how much effort it had taken to create that bedding for such a terrible farce . . . Just the sight of that bed was enough to make her feel like vomiting.  The first time she’d laid eyes on it, she’d very nearly broken down in tears, had almost hyperventilated as she’d stared at it in complete and utter horror. </p><p>She sighed softly, letting her chin fall atop her hand, resting on the windowsill, staring at the falling snow without really seeing it at all.</p><p>She didn’t remember those first few days—maybe a week?—after that ill-fated night when she’d stabbed Domnul Okeke.  The physician had apparently prescribed some heavy-duty pain meds that invariably kept her sleeping for part of her convalescence.  Later, after she’d finally recovered enough to be taken off the prescriptions, her father had visited her long enough to lecture her for a long while about how she’d brought shame upon their family, that her selfish actions that night had resulted in Domnul Okeke, nearly calling off the mating, as well as his angry insistence that she be given to him to be punished further for daring to attack her betters . . . Grigore had managed to talk him out of it, to smooth it over enough that he had ultimately chosen not to end the planned mating.  Her father had gone on to tell her, in no uncertain terms, that she better never attack her future mate again, that whatever he wanted was fine.  If Domnul Okeke wanted to have her, then that was his choice, not hers.  She had no room to complain.  It was such a good match, after all.  Domnul Okeke would eventually become the leader of his people, and she would be his ordained mate for all time . . .</p><p>She would be just like her own mother, trapped in a life of hate and despair until the only way out of it, the only escape, was the oblivion, the apathy, that accompanied, succumbing to the drink . . .</p><p>Three broken ribs, a cracked cheekbone, a severely bruised jaw, a broken wrist . . . In a way, those injuries had saved her from being subjected to the normal rules of appearances, and the whispers and talk had blamed her, too.  She hadn’t left her chambers till last week, and maybe it was simply her own imagination, but she thought that everyone, including the womenfolk, had been a little cold to her, and she supposed that it was to be expected.  In their eyes, she was the one who had been wrong.  Possessing the audacity to attack a man, and not just any man, but the one she was promised to?  They’d thought that she had it coming, didn’t they?</p><p>Maybe . . . Maybe she did . . . If she had just lay there, let him do what he wanted to do, none of this would have happened.</p><p>It didn’t matter to anyone that he’d tried to rape her.  Rape, in and of itself, did not actually exist in the minds of her people.  All women, to one extent or another, were expendable, even her.  If her mate told her to lie down and shut up, then that’s what she was expected to do.  If he wanted to sleep with her or to beat her, then that was his right, too.</p><p>It . . . It wasn’t fair, was it . . .?</p><p>Just the memory of her fear that night was almost enough to choke her.  Just the thought that, in just over two nights from now, she’d be forced to accept him on that bed in front of everyone she’d ever known . . .</p><p>Her eyes felt hot, grainy.  Staring sadly at the moon—just over half of it—glowing in such a cold and sad kind of way—a misshapen blob, the lopsided imperfection that never would attain the same brilliance, the same beauty, as the full moon—she felt tears prick the backs of her eyelids, but those tears refused to fall.  Maybe her melancholy was too deep that simple tears just wouldn’t suffice.</p><p>Or maybe some part of her was already resigned to the inevitable fate that awaited her . . .</p><p>As if in response to that thought, she sat up, pulled her hand back in the window, but she didn’t close it.  To do so would be way too stifling, and lately, it had become far too difficult to breathe without adding that to it.  Her ribs had healed; it wasn’t a physical thing.  It was more of a pervasive sense of the walls closing in on her—an invisible thing that loomed over everything, all of her thoughts, from the moment she awoke in the morning until the night when she closed her eyes, and even in the confines of her dreams . . .</p><p>Gaze shifting to the side as she retreated back into the warmth of her bed, she gasped softly when her eyes lit on the hateful visage of the gorgeous mating gown that hung on the closed doors of her wardrobe.  In the creeping dark, the snowy white lace looked like a ghost, stirring slightly as the fingers of the wind, filtering through the open window, touched it.  A fine lace robe that was so long it would trail on the floor over a simple sheathe dress, held up by the thinnest of straps at the shoulders . . . A plunging ‘v’ neckline that tied closed with a very feminine white bow just between the breasts that would fit her body perfectly to the hips where it flared out full . . .  The front part of the hem stopped just below her crotch but was longer in the back—down to her knees . . . and all of it was fashioned out of that gorgeous lace.  It was meant to enhance, but not to disguise.  Every last bit of her would be fully and prominently on display, and there was nothing she could do to hide a thing . . .</p><p>She’d be laid out on that bed after her mother and father removed the robe with the flaring sleeves, as they were the first to inspect her.  They would check her from head to foot, assessing her physical worth, and if she passed their scrutiny, they would help her onto that bed, would arrange her hair and fuss with her gown, trying to make her the most alluring, and during it all, she dared not make a sound, dared not allow her own fear, her own disgust, her own horror to show.</p><p>After they stepped away from her, then the others would be encouraged to come forward, to inspect her in much the same way as her parents had done.  They, too, would fuss with her gown, her hair.  They, too, had every right to run their hands over her, to feel her body, to search for imperfections that she might have tried to hide.  It was said that it would also help her to relax, those gentle hands and caresses.  Somehow, she doubted it . . .</p><p>And then would come her presentation to her mate, and his inspection would be so much worse than the others.  He would tear the gown from her body, would turn her, lift her, open her.  He was expected to describe her body to those in attendance, whether it was for good or ill.  And if she was deemed good enough . . .</p><p>He would then join her on the bed after removing his clothes.  Then he would take her as he would.  If he tried to be gentle, then maybe it would be bearable, and if he wasn’t?  Then it fell upon her to remain completely silent, to hold in her tears and her pain, regardless of how much it may hurt.  A crying woman was simply not strong enough—a crying woman was not suffered to live.  Weakness was not acceptable . . .  Then, he would finally spill his seed into her, as the gathering chanted their hopes for a male child, over and over . . .</p><p>A flickering star caught her attention.  It struggled and fought to retain its position in a sky that neither aided its plight nor hindered it.  As though the weight of the entire universe fell upon its shoulders, it stuttered, faltered, as it gained a little speed, as it shifted like it was being carried along on an invisible line . . . It left a trail of glitter behind it as it fell.  It was a wishing star, wasn’t it?  The kind that granted earnest wishes . . .</p><p>What was it that she’d heard, once upon a time?  If you wished upon a falling star—a wishing star—if you wished with all your heart and soul . . . if your wish was pure and worthy . . .</p><p>And she knew it was hopelessly childish, ridiculously naïve on her part.  After all, there really was nothing that could or would prevent the mating that she didn’t want.</p><p>Still . . .</p><p>Still . . .</p><p>Still, she closed her eyes.</p><p>And she made a wish—a lonely, desperate wish.</p><p>‘<em>Please, I . . . I wish . . . Someone . . . anyone . . . Save me . . .</em>’</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> “You look . . . lovely.”</p><p>Managing a very weak smile, Jericho stepped out of her chambers and into the hallway. As soon as she did, Sefu Okeke slipped an arm around her waist, holding her close to his side as he escorted her toward the grand staircase.  He sighed.  “I suppose it’s too much to ask of you to say whether or not my appearance pleases you, Jericho?”</p><p>“Of course,” she demurred, somehow able to retain the smile despite the lie that she had to force out.</p><p>He chuckled.  “Ah, what a pair we are . . . You realize that it took me a good few days to fully recover from that stab wound,” he went on, his tone dropping as he leaned toward her.  “Damn those obsidian blades . . . Where did you get that, I wonder . . .?”</p><p>It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him of how long it took her to heal from her side of the incident.  She didn’t.  “I . . . found it,” she lied, hoping that he didn’t see right through it.  If anyone realized where she’d gotten that dagger . . .</p><p>He considered her words, nodding slowly, almost as though he were merely humoring her, and she gritted her teeth.  “You just <em>found</em> it, is that right?”  He nodded again.  “That makes sense, doesn’t it?  I mean, surely neither your mighty father or your esteemed brother would arm you with such a thing . . . I wonder . . .” He stopped suddenly, let go of her to turn and face her, his face registering his mock surprise, his wide-eyed show of astonishment.  “Domnita Jericho . . . Was it your . . . <em>mother</em> . . .?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he slipped his arm around her once more, the tips of his claws digging in unnecessarily against her waist.  She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from grimacing.  “Perhaps I ought to have a talk with your father . . .”</p><p>It took everything in her to keep moving, to concentrate on putting one foot before the other as they made their way down the stairs.  The problem was, she had no real idea if he was making an idle threat or not.  He was ruthless enough for the threat to carry a hint of foreboding promise . . . But no one would really be able to prove a thing . . . would they?</p><p>Even so, she knew, didn’t she?  If her father ever found out that her mother was the one who had given her that dagger?  She flinched inwardly.  There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that, if he found out about it—if he even suspected that it was possible—the reprisals against her mother . . . They’d be swift, and they’d be harsh . . . Maybe, had it been anything other than an obsidian blade . . .</p><p>But those blades, forged from the obsidian that lay dormant in the earth, were special, and her kind feared them with good reason.  For those like her—those who weren’t drinkers, the blades were only really as damaging as any other blade would be.  To those like him?  They were much, much worse.  Something about the obsidian reacted to their bodies in a much deeper way, dealing more damage over time—almost like a poison or a toxin.  She didn’t understand why it was, but there must have been some truth to the old legends if it took him that long to recover from the wound she’d dealt him.  He was a drinker, and that usually meant that he’d heal much, much faster than a non-drinker.  But she’d used an obsidian blade, and that made all the difference . . .</p><p>“Don’t you think you should be smiling?”</p><p>Blinking at the not-so-subtle warning in his tone, she summoned a very small smile that had to look entirely false.</p><p>“You don’t really want your family to think that you’re unhappy about our mating, do you?  Besides, by this time next week, this place will be nothing more than a memory to you.  You’ll never see it again, you know.”</p><p>She didn’t know if that was a threat or a promise, and even then, she honestly couldn’t say how she felt about that, either.  This place was her home, certainly, but she’s always understood that it would change one day.</p><p>The great hall was as loud as ever, full of chatter that settled into a dull hum.  The servants were parading into the room, bearing the great platters of meats and cheeses, of fruits and nuts and pitchers of beer, bottles of wine.  The fragrant food was enough to turn her stomach, and she stifled a sigh as he led her up onto the raised dais where the <em>stapan’s</em> table stood.</p><p>He seated her like a perfect gentleman, his smile bright as he sat beside her.  She kept her eyes downcast, concentrating on her empty plate since the last thing—the very last thing—she wanted to see was that appallingly beautiful bed that was still on prominent display.</p><p>Neither Grigore nor Stefan were there yet, and Domnul Okeke was preoccupied, directing the servants on what to serve her since he’d taken to strictly monitoring her diet, allotting her only what he felt she needed and little else.  If her appetite hadn’t been conspicuously absent of late, she might have complained—if she’d dared.  Perhaps four bites of meat—the leanest meat heaped on those platters—perhaps a small slice of <em>țară pâine</em>, but never a full, crusty slice . . . a dollop of mamaliga, maybe a small bowl of ciorba . . . some vegetables . . . She was not permitted to partake in any of the sweets that were always brought out at the end of the meal, either, and she was only allotted a single glass of wine to last the whole meal, as well . . . She was youkai, of course, which meant that she never was truly overweight, but what should have been an alarming lack of actual food had led to a decent amount of weight loss—weight she hadn’t needed to lose, in the first place . . .</p><p>Despite the rationing of her food, she still couldn’t summon the will to eat much of it, and the few bites she did succeed in choking down was only accomplished through sheer will since she didn’t dare disobey her future mate directly.  She could feel his steely gaze on her.  It seemed to her that he had an unnatural preoccupation with watching her like a predator, closing in on its prey . . .</p><p>The knot in her stomach tightened after her third bite, enough so that she knew instinctively that if she tried to force down more, she’d likely end up, making herself sick.  Her hands were shaking so badly that she very nearly spilled wine on herself.  Domnul Okeke reached out, snatched the glass out of her hand, uttering an impatient kind of sound that made her flinch.</p><p>“Clumsy girl,” he growled under his breath.  “Eat your supper.”</p><p>It wasn’t a request.  It was a command, and Jericho forced herself to pick up her fork once more as she fiddled with her blunt knife—she wasn’t allowed the use of anything sharp since the stabbing.  She ate the tiny bite, taking her time while chewing.  It took three tries to actually swallow it, though—three tries and an iron resolve not to throw up instantly . . .</p><p>He sighed, letting his fork fall onto his plate with a deafening clatter that drew the attention of most everyone nearby.  “You’re the daughter of the stapan, Jericho.  Are you to tell me that you weren’t taught the proper way to eat your food?”</p><p>She said nothing, kept her gaze lowered, even as a hot wash of a painful embarrassment flooded into her cheeks.  How telling was it, that not one person spoke up in her defense, that no one even cleared their throats before the mindless chatter resumed, as they all sought to avoid interfering.</p><p>The only thing she could do was to try harder, and, to that end, she managed another few bites until she felt the slight slackening of his critical eye.  She’d managed to choke down about half of her food, but, staring at the rest of it, she had to swallow back the rise of bile as her nerves got the better of her stomach . . .</p><p>“Oh, for God’s sake, Jericho!” he hissed, grabbing her arm, dealing her a slight shake as she gasped and flinched and tried not to look afraid.  “Go to your room if you can’t eat properly.  Just go!”</p><p>She didn’t wait for him to say it a second time.  He shoved her arm back, as though he were completely disgusted, and she stumbled to her feet, grasping fistfuls of her full skirt as she swung around and hurried as fast as she dared off the dais and around the tables.  On the one hand, she couldn’t help but feel relieved at the reprieve, no matter if he’d chastised her in front of everyone else or not.  On the other?  He’d be coming later, wouldn’t he?  Coming to punish her for her perceived lack of manners . . .</p><p>What did that matter as long as she had a few precious seconds to gather herself again?  Eyes still downcast, the click of her heels, rattling through her body, through her head, she wasn’t paying attention as she broke for the archway—and straight into a very solid body.</p><p>“Uh . . . Oh . . . Sorry,” he said, his hands closing over her upper arms to steady her.  His touch was gentle, but strong, as he steadied her on her feet and let go.</p><p>“I’m sorry!” she blurted, shaking her head, acutely aware that she’d damn near run the poor man down.  She lifted her face as her brain kicked in a second too late, as her eyes flared wide at the outlander she’d never seen before.  Fairly long, wispy, red hair—<em>really</em> red hair—the reddest hair she’d ever seen before . . . even brighter brown eyes . . . His face was lean, just now drawn into a concerned kind of expression, and she gasped, stepped back, her face paling as one bit of information shot to the fore.</p><p>He . . . He was a dog, wasn’t he?  A <em>dog</em> . . .</p><p>“<em>Then the dogs came in the night, wreaked their vengeance upon all of our kind, cutting them down, every man, woman, and child, until all that was left was the Great Mama, and in her arms, she held the Great Tata . . . The dogs from the east with their tearing claws and their ugly, gaping maws</em> . . .”</p><p>“Are you okay?” he asked in English—English with a strange lilt of an accent she hadn’t heard before.  He started to reach out, to touch her arm, and Jericho choked back a small scream, evading his hand as she spun around, the faces of both her brother and her father, nothing more than a blur behind the stranger as she broke for the stairs . . .</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><em>Comments encouraged</em>…</p><p><strong><em>Tară pâine</em></strong><em>: Romanian country-style bread made of a combination of wheat flour and cornmeal</em>.<br/><strong><em>Mamaliga</em></strong><em>: Romanian cornmeal porridge</em>.<br/><strong><em>Ciorba</em></strong><em>: sour soup</em>.</p><p>== <strong><em>== == == == == == == ==</em></strong> ==</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Reviewers</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>==========</p><p><strong><em>MMorg<br/></em></strong>— — —</p><p>==========</p><p><strong><em>AO3<br/></em></strong>TheWonderfulShoe ——— minthegreen ——— Calvarez ——— Cutechick18</p><p>==========</p><p><strong><em>Final</em></strong><em> <strong>Thought</strong> <strong>from</strong></em> <strong><em>Jericho</em></strong>:<br/><em>A … A dog </em>…?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Intrigue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~~<strong><em>Chapter</em></strong> <strong><em>Four</em></strong>~~<br/>~<strong><em> Intrigue</em></strong>~</p><p> </p><p>~<strong><em>o</em></strong>~</p><p> </p><p>“You must excuse her.  She’d been out of sorts lately.  Her mating is due to be celebrated in two days’ time, and, like all young women, she . . . She’s excited.”</p><p>Taine Izanagi didn’t move his narrow-eyed frown off of the stairs where the girl had retreated only moments before, but he nodded once, simply to indicate that he’d heard him.  “She didn’t seem . . . excited . . . to me,” he said.  “She seemed <em>scared</em>.”</p><p>Grigore Cioban uttered a very amused belly laugh as he clapped him on the shoulder and steered him through the archway and into the great hall.  Dinner was already laid out, and he allowed the <em>stapan</em> to direct him onto the dais, into the chair beside his—one that probably should have been reserved for the man’s mate . . . maybe.  “Ah, well, the other women were probably scaring her with their silly stories—telling her exaggerated tales about the mating, no doubt!  It happens, does it not?  Silly creatures, womenfolk . . . It is . . . How do you say it?  Ah, <em>custom!</em>”</p><p>The look he shot the older man bespoke his doubt on that front, but he didn’t actually call the man out on the lie, either.  “In any case, I thank you for your hospitality during my stay.  Once I’ve checked out the village and made sure that everything is how it should be, I’ll be on my way.”</p><p>“As you can see, there is nothing amiss here.  We have nothing at all to hide, you understand?  The Demyanov is concerned over nothing—<em>nothing</em> at all!”</p><p>Dark brown eyes, flicking over the residents of the castle, Taine slowly shook his head.  Though there were a number of youkai who possessed what should be considered natural coloring—mostly women and small children—the vast majority of the grown men and a good number of women were marked by the beyond-black hair and eyes—the hallmark of their kind after they’d given in to the urge to drink . . . “Except it seems that a good many of you have been feeding, and that goes against the terms of the treaty.”</p><p>Grigore chuckled, draining the beer before him and letting the heavy mug thud onto the table before answering.  “Ah ah,” he disagreed.  “The terms clearly state that we many not <em>kill</em> humans.  It says nothing at all about drinking.  We never drink to kill, anyway.  We find it much more . . . productive to borrow only what we need, and the villagers . . . They are compensated for it, of course.  It’s only natural, after all, eh?”</p><p>“Is that what you call it?” he countered mildly.  Something about Grigore’s cavalier demeanor rankled him, even if he didn’t outwardly show it.</p><p>To be honest, he was surprised that he had been admitted to the valley without incident.  <em>Valea Morții</em>—Death Valley—as the locals who lived near enough to know the lore, to fear the place as they did.  Before he’d left Castle Demyanov in eastern Russia, he’d been warned not to expect an easy time of it . . .</p><p><em>The fire burned low on the hearth in the comfortably appointed office of the Asian tai-youkai.  It was late—well after midnight—but for Taine, it was business as usual since he had a discernable habit of answering Demyanov’s summons in the late hours of the night—or the wee hours of the morning, however one wanted to look at it . . . Sitting behind the broad and thick desk, Faine Demyanov—Fai, for short—rested his elbows on the thick arms of his chair, steepling his fingers before himself as he stared at Taine for a long, long moment.  “You summoned me, Your Grace?” Taine asked, breaking the rather heavy silence that had fallen since he’d been showed into the office by the tai-youkai’s butler, an older mink-youkai named Vasili</em>.</p><p><em>Fai sighed.  It wasn’t an entirely familiar sound from the otherwise somewhat stoic dog.  “I got a letter, asking me to check into the happenings at Castle Cioban in Romania.  There’s . . . a question regarding the adherence to the treaty</em> . . .”</p><p>“<em>Treaty?” Taine echoed, frowning as he took the letter that Fai held out to him.  He scanned it quickly, his brows drawing together.  According to the missive, there was reason to believe that the treaty wasn’t being properly adhered to, and, though the letter wasn’t signed, there was detail enough—names even—that there was a definite air of credibility to be found.  “These are</em> . . .”</p><p><em>Fai nodded slowly.  “The blood-youkai,” he said.  “They used to be more of a problem back in my great-grandfather’s day,” he admitted, standing up, venturing over to fill a couple glasses with Demyanov label vodka—some of the best vodka in the world.  “After one of them apparently went mad, killing off thirty or so of the villagers in Treimunti, he had no choice but to go in and stop them.  From what I understand, he meant to kill them all off, thus ridding the area of the lurking menace.  In the end, though, there was one woman and her infant son that begged for their lives, and my great-grandfather . . . Well, he wasn’t without compassion.  He said that she had not fed off of the humans—still retained her natural coloring, and the infant was much too small for that to be an issue . . . He allowed her to live, but the condition was that she was to never, ever kill a human or he’d come back, and he’d finish what he chose not to do at that time</em>.”</p><p>“<em>And she never did?</em>”</p><p><em>Fai shrugged.  “Not that we ever heard of.  Up until I got that—” he said, handing Taine a glass as he jerked his head toward the letter in Taine’s hand, “—I thought that they were content to be allowed to exist.”  Striding back to his desk, he flopped down and casually lifted the glass to his lips, hazel eyes shining in a rather predatory way in the half-light.  “Apparently, I was wrong</em> . . .”</p><p><em>Taine considered that, then slowly nodded.  “And you want me to go in and find out if they’re breaking the treaty?</em>”</p><p><em>Fai nodded.  “Something like that</em>.”</p><p><em>Striding over to drop the letter on Fai’s desk once more, Taine nodded, too.  “And if they are?</em>”</p><p><em>Letting out a deep breath, Fai rubbed his temple in a rather weary kind of way.  His answer, however, was long in coming, and when it did, it was delivered with a hint of resignation that Taine could completely understand.  “If they are, then you . . . you know what to do, hunter</em>.”</p><p>Blinking away the lingering memory, Taine slowly shifted his gaze over the assembly of blood-youkai.  Grigore’s son, who had been introduced earlier as the <em>stapan’s</em> heir-apparent, Stefan, sat on his father’s other side, leaned forward to eye Taine.  “If you remain here too long, you’ll be trapped by snow,” he predicted.  “Given that the Demyanov sent you, it would be unwise to linger here . . . We would hate, after all, for him not to receive your report in a timely manner, don’t you think?”</p><p>“I don’t think you need to worry about me,” Taine remarked.  “But tell me . . . Why is that bed in the midst of the great hall?”</p><p>Grigore chuckled again.  “That?  That is for my daughter’s mating!  It’s our custom to bear witness so that we can all share in her joy!”</p><p>“Share in her joy?  She’s expected to mate with him right there in the middle of everyone?” Taine demanded, unable to repress the hint of disgust evident in his tone and expression.</p><p>Grigore apparently didn’t see anything wrong with the situation.  “Yes, of course!  Then we know that she is happy, and he is well-pleased . . . It is the most beneficial for all parties.  You!  You are welcome to celebrate this happiest of occasions with us!  Report back to the Demyanov that all is well; that we are pleased!”</p><p>Taine wasn’t entirely sure he agreed with the man’s logic, but he let it drop, despite his own misgivings.</p><p>“This!”  Grigore went on, leaning over his son, gesturing at the man on Stefan’s other side, “Domnul Izanagi  . . . may I present to you my daughter’s mate, Sefu Okeke from Somalia . . . Domnul Okeke, this is Taine Izanagi—one of the Demyanov’s men . . . Here conducting a checkup for our most-esteemed tai-youkai . . .”</p><p>Taine didn’t miss the underlying sense of hostility that Grigore tried to hide in his tone.  He didn’t remark upon it, though.  The reality of it was that, once Taine had handed over the official missive that Fai had given him, there wasn’t really anything they could do, given that they were wise enough to realize that their options were to cooperate or to face the wrath of the tai-youkai.</p><p>“You are welcome to stay, to enjoy my hospitality, to watch the joining of my daughter and her mate,” Grigore continued.  “We feast and celebrate such a joyful occasion!”</p><p>Taine didn’t respond to that offer, either, given that he was still rather disgusted with the whole idea of being put on display during something like that for any reason at all, even if it was seen as some kind of local custom.  He’d heard of such insane things in history long past, but those had invariably fallen out of fashion centuries ago.  That they were participating in it now in this place?  He snorted inwardly, recalling the absolute fear in the girl’s aura when she’d accidentally barreled into him—and it was fear; he knew it was.  She . . . She really didn’t want this mating, did she?  Or was she simply afraid of the public display of it all . . .?</p><p>‘<em>Who cares?  She’s none of our business.  We’re here just to make sure they’re not killing humans, right?  Best just make sure they’re not so we can move on.</em>’</p><p>Considering the wise counsel of his youkai-voice, he gave one curt nod, scowling at the food that the servants had heaped onto the empty plate before him.  It looked fine, but he’d also made it a habit, not to ever eat anything that he didn’t see prepared when he was out on a job.</p><p>As for the girl?</p><p>That platinum blonde hair, caught up out of her face in a very intricate arrangement of braids and curls, those pale lilac eyes, ringed in a darker violet hue that seemed all the starker against the snowy white dress she wore . . . Tall enough that she stood even with his shoulder—maybe a couple inches shorter since she was wearing heels, she possessed such a frail air, a daintiness that somehow made him want to shield her . . . Such delicate features, a grace that lay, just below the surface . . . She was gorgeous, surely—and she was also entirely afraid of . . . something . . . too . . . She was running away from something when she fled the hall, wasn’t she?  And if she were, then it wasn’t hard to figure out what that, ‘something’ might be . . .</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Stepping out of the small shop with the watch and the pearl earrings that she’d bought—thank you gifts for both her father and mother—customary presents that she was expected to give before leaving home—Jericho let out a deep breath, sparing a moment to flip open the little black velvet box, frowning as she gazed upon the beautiful earrings.</p><p>She sighed.  She had no idea, really, whether or not her mother would actually like them.  To be fair, she couldn’t rightfully remember if her mother actually had pierced ears or not.  Something about that realization bothered her, even as she tried to brush it aside.  After all, it really wouldn’t make a difference.  Snapping it closed, she carefully tucked it into her pocket, along with the case that held the watch.</p><p>A few young boys dashed past on the street, yelling to one another, laughing, playing, and she broke into a wan smile.  Those boys were probably around eight or nine years old, and they were still so carefree . . . As she watched them, she wondered if she had ever been like that, and the answer made her smile falter.  No, she really couldn’t recall a time when she’d ever felt that free . . .</p><p>Letting out a deep breath, she gave herself a mental shake and made herself move, careful to avoid some shop owners who were busy, hanging Christmas décor outside of their perspective stores.  She had permission to come into the village today, certainly, but she knew better than to tempt fate by lingering too long.  Oh, she had little doubt that her father would really care if she dallied along the way, but Domnul Okete?</p><p>She shivered, pulling her thick fur cloak a little closer at her throat, tugging on the attached hood that covered her head . . . No, as much as she might like to indulge the desire to take one last, long look around the village she knew so well, she wasn’t entirely sure that her future mate would be tolerant enough to allow it . . .</p><p>To her surprise—and relief—he hadn’t come to her chambers to chastise her last night.  She didn’t know what she’d done to earn the slight reprieve, but she didn’t think to question it, either.  It was enough . . . Except that, as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her entire body, so tight, so rigid, as she’d listened for any sign that he was coming to punish her, she’d dreaded it—and anticipated it with a grim sense of the inevitable, all at the same time . . .</p><p>And yet, even as she’d waited, her thoughts had kept returning to the outlander—the dog-youkai with the crazy red hair and the burning brown eyes . . . Somehow, the coloring didn’t seem quite right, even though she had no idea why she thought as much.</p><p>He was tall—taller than her father or brother—taller than Domnul Okeke, too.  He wasn’t huge, by any means, though.  Rather lanky was a good way to describe his physical build, maybe.  Even so, there was a strange sense about him, about his aura—a commanding type of presence that felt as though he was used to getting his way without much thought, and yet, it wasn’t exactly an overbearing sense that she had gotten from him, either.  No, it was simply the kind of presence that certain men possessed, maybe . . .</p><p>But a dog . . .?</p><p>Pressing her lips together in a thin line, she shook her head at her own thoughts.  Dogs were her kind’s enemy, weren’t they?  The ones who had come, had almost destroyed her ancestors . . . She didn’t know if her distrust of him was instinctual or simply a byproduct of the things she’d been taught over the years, and really, it didn’t matter.  She had a strange kind of feeling—like something about him really could destroy her entire existence . . .</p><p>And that was almost as terrifying as the idea of spending the rest of her life with someone like Domnul Okeke . . .</p><p>“Domnita!  Domnita Jericho!”</p><p>She stopped, turned, a hand grasping the side of her hood, blinking in surprise as one of the local children—a little girl, skipped toward her on the old cobblestone street.  She held a slightly crushed winter lily in her hand, and, as she closed in on her, she held it up, her smile bright and brilliant, her blue eyes shining, sparkling, shimmering in the early afternoon sunshine.  “Hello,” she said, hunkering down so that she was on the child’s level.</p><p>The little girl giggled as her mother hurried to catch up with her overzealous child.  “Mama says you’re getting married,” the child exclaimed.  “This is for you!”</p><p>Taking the flower, Jericho made a show of admiring it, not bothering to try to explain to the child that she wasn’t actually marrying since, in reality, it didn’t matter because an official mating was far more binding than any bit of paper that the church might hand out.  “It’s beautiful,” she insisted, reaching out, gently pushing the girl’s hair out of her face.  “Thank you!”</p><p>The little girl beamed at her.</p><p>“Domnita!  I’m so sorry!  I hope she isn’t bothering you!  Ana!  You know better than to run away from me!”</p><p>Jericho stood quickly, gently touching the harried woman’s arm.  “Oh, please don’t scold her!” she blurted, cheeks pinking as she sought to stave back any forthcoming punishment on the poor girl.  “She wasn’t a bother at all!  I promise!”</p><p>The woman looked hesitant, a little uncertain.  Jericho offered her a little smile, hoping that it would convince her.  “If . . . If you’re sure, domnita . . .”</p><p>“I am,” Jericho insisted.  “Thank you so much, Ana,” she said, reaching out to ruffle the girl’s hair.  “I shall put this in a vase in my room.”</p><p>The little girl threw her arms around Jericho’s waist and hugged her tight.  Jericho blinked in surprise but rubbed her back through the serviceable wool cape.  All too soon, the mother pulled Ana away before bobbing in a quick curtsey and a very happy smile.</p><p>Jericho sighed as she watched the two go.  Something about the sight of them, walking along, hand in hand as Ana’s childish giggles drifted back to her made her feel just a little sadder, a little more isolated, a little more alone . . .</p><p>“Domnita Jericho, isn’t it?”</p><p>She gasped and turned, eyes flaring wide as she came face-to-face with the outlander she’d run into last night on her way out of the hall: the dog-youkai.  Taking a step back in unconscious retreat, she couldn’t help the smothered kind of squeak that slipped out of her.  He seemed to be a little surprised at her attempt to put some space between them but made no move to stop her.</p><p>He frowned.  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, stuffing his hands, deep into the pockets of his strange blue slacks—she hadn’t seen material quite like it before.  He wore no jacket—just a faded-looking sweater, fashioned out of thicker material with a large pouch-like pocket on the front and a hood attached to the neckline.  It had no collar, but it did have a pull string that hung on either side of the hood’s opening.</p><p>She narrowed her eyes, her nostrils flaring slightly as she wondered vaguely if she could outrun him, realizing that there was no way she could . . . “You’re a dog,” she blurted before she could stop herself.</p><p>He seemed vaguely surprised by her statement—not that he didn’t realize what he was, of course—but that she would mention it like it was something out of the ordinary, maybe . . .</p><p>“You don’t like dogs, I take it?” he asked rather dryly, quirking a dark eyebrow to emphasize his question.</p><p>She shook her head, quickly looking around, fervently searching the street, wishing in vain that there was someone—anyone—she recognized.  All too aware of the sense of overwhelming power that he wore so nonchalantly in his aura, Jericho wanted—<em>needed</em>—to get away from him.  She didn’t know him, couldn’t trust him . . . and . . .</p><p>He sensed her discomfort, even if he didn’t rightfully understand it.  “I hear that congratulations are in order,” he went on, deliberately keeping his tone light, casual—almost friendly.</p><p>“Congratulations?” she echoed, shaking her head, frowning at the abrupt change in topics.</p><p>He nodded.  “Your mating . . .?  That’s tomorrow night, isn’t it?”</p><p>The reminder was brutal, almost debilitating, sending what was left of her composure, scattering like the powdery snow that was settling on the street as it fell so harmlessly from the skies.  “Thank you,” she heard herself saying, even as she felt her gaze slip to the side.</p><p>“Unless you’re . . . <em>not</em> happy about it . . .?” he countered.</p><p>Her frown deepened.  Why was it that he actually did sound rather concerned?  She shook her head, positive that she was reading more into it than what was really there.  He had no reason to feign such an emotion.  She didn’t know him from Adam, now did she?  He was nothing more than a perfect stranger—an outlander—which meant that he had no idea, just what her mating would mean or entail . . .</p><p>“I’m happy,” she lied, blurted, her cheeks reddening under the strain of her lie.  “Shouldn’t I be?”</p><p>“You should be,” he agreed easily enough.  “I’m happy for you, then.”</p><p>He sounded sincere enough.  For some reason, an irrational surge of anger shot through her, and, though she wasn’t entirely sure why, she had a feeling that it was simply the idea that he accepted her words at face value.  Maybe he was lying, too, or, more likely, he simply didn’t care enough to discern her own untruths . . . Even so, she still forced herself to mumble, “Thank you.”</p><p>He cleared his throat.  “Okay, so . . . Tell me why you seem . . . worried by the idea that I’m a dog?”</p><p>Wincing inwardly at the unnecessary reminder, Jericho cautiously stepped out onto the street, wondering if he would get the idea, if he would let her go.  He didn’t.  Falling into step beside her, he seemed content enough to let her dictate the direction in which they were walking.  “Dogs are our mortal enemies,” she replied, careful to keep her tone low—careful to keep her eyes trained on the road under her feet.</p><p>“Are we?” he countered.  He seemed surprised—almost amused.  “I didn’t know that.”</p><p>She bristled, feeling her hackles rising fast.  Common sense told her that she really ought to keep a tight rein over her burgeoning irritation.  She couldn’t quite do it, though, and she scoffed.  “Your kind <em>murdered</em> nearly all of my people,” she pointed out frostily, narrowing her gaze in a cold glower.</p><p>He nodded slowly as comprehension seemed to dawn upon him.  “And your kind <em>murdered</em> a lot of humans before that,” he reminded her in a hushed whisper that carried no farther than her ears.</p><p>She gasped at his claim, stopping abruptly in the middle of the street as she pivoted to stare at him.  An oncoming horse cart had to swerve to avoid her, and the beast uttered a high-pitched squeal as the driver jerked him to the right.  “They didn’t!” she bit out, her cheeks blossoming in indignant color.  “They wouldn’t have!  They only drink enough to slake the thirst!  They—”</p><p>“Maybe these days,” he interrupted.  “Back then, they weren’t nearly so benevolent.”  Then, he sighed, shrugged, stared at her for a long moment before slipping his hand under her elbow and moving her along the street once more, back in the direction of the main thoroughfare that led out of the village and toward the castle.  He let go when he was satisfied that she’d keep walking.  “I don’t know what you’ve been told.  It’s really not my concern, anyway, but I assure you, the tai-youkai have always been far too busy with things that require their immediate attention that if your people were, as you say, murdered, then there was a reason for it.  Or do you really think that they singled out your people just because of some kind of misplaced prejudice?”</p><p>She glowered at him and tugged on her arm, to no avail.  He wasn’t being cruel, exactly, but his grip was much too strong for her to simply shake off.  “Of course, you defend them!  You’re one of them!”</p><p>“I’m not defending anyone,” he told her.  “I’m simply telling you what I know.”</p><p>“What you know?  And you’re not sorry for it in the least?” she challenged.</p><p>He shrugged.  “I wasn’t even alive back then, so no . . . Do you go around, apologizing for things that you didn’t do?”</p><p>She opened her mouth to counter him, but snapped it closed when she realized that he had a very valid point—even if she really didn’t feel like admitting as much out loud.  Instead, she settled on a less volatile topic—she hoped, anyway.  “Why are you here, then, if not to kill off my kin?”</p><p>For some reason, he seemed amused by her question if the heightened brightness in his deep brown eyes meant anything at all.  Lifting a hand, dragging it through the crazy, unruly red locks that looked ridiculously soft, he let out a deep breath.  “The tai-youkai sent me,” he admitted.  “He heard some rumors that your clan was feeding.  I just need to make sure that humans aren’t dropping like flies.”</p><p>“And?” she pressed, unable to keep the hint of prim irritation out of her tone.</p><p>He shrugged his shoulders offhandedly.  “And . . . there hasn’t been any suspicious deaths—at least, according to the records . . . Tell me, though.  Why do the villagers seem to act like your family are somehow akin to gods?”</p><p>She deliberately slowed her gait as they neared the edge of the village.  The path that led to the castle was a short one, and suddenly, she didn’t feel as anxious to hurry back to the confines of the cold prison she called home . . . “I wouldn’t know,” she admitted quietly.  “I don’t go into the village that often.”</p><p>He nodded slowly.  “Have you ever been out of this valley?”</p><p>Why did that simple question have the ability to make her feel so incredibly small?  “No,” she admitted.</p><p>He led her through the high archways that led to the steps up to the looming front doors . . . “Well, if you’re going to spend most of your life in one place, at least this one is beautiful,” he told her.</p><p>For some reason, his statement made her feel a little bit better, even if she wasn’t sure, why that was.  Stopping before they could reach the steps, she turned instead, staring out over the landscape, the picturesque little village that they’d just left.  As though she were trying to commit the view to memory, she bit her lip, let out a soft sigh.</p><p>“You know . . . You really don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he remarked quietly—a statement meant for only her to hear.</p><p>“That’s . . . That’s not really true,” she murmured without shifting her gaze away from Treimunti.</p><p>He let out a deep breath that clouded the moment it slipped past his lips.  “It’s as true as you want it to be,” he replied.</p><p>She didn’t trust herself to respond to that.  As much as he might well believe what he was saying, she knew better, didn’t she?  Knew it because . . . because there really was no way that she could possibly get out of a damn thing, and, in a way, she couldn’t help but to feel resentful that he believed what he claimed.</p><p>Turning around, she strode toward the imposing stairs, the castle beyond, and she didn’t bother to look to see if the outlander was following.  She could feel him, close behind her, anyway . . . Two of the men who were on duty yanked the doors open for them to pass through.  Once inside, he turned toward her, inclined his head in a polite pseudo-bow.</p><p>She nodded back, lowering her hood as the warmth of the castle surrounded her.  He narrowed his eyes just a little, reaching out slowly, carefully brushing some unmelted snow out of her bangs.  Then he smiled at her before turning on his heel and walking away as she stared after him, biting her lip as she tried to make sense of the strange sensation he’d inspired with his simple gesture . . .</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><em>Last finished chapter</em>.</p><p><strong><em>Valea Morții</em></strong><em>: Romanian.  Death Valley</em>.</p><p>== <strong><em>== == == == == == == ==</em></strong> ==</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Reviewers</em>
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</p><p>==========</p><p><strong><em>MMorg<br/></em></strong>— — —</p><p>==========</p><p><strong><em>AO3<br/></em></strong>minthegreen ——— Cutechick18 ——— Liz80 ——— Calvarez</p><p>==========</p><p><strong><em>Final</em></strong><em> <strong>Thought</strong> <strong>from</strong></em> <strong><em>Jericho</em></strong>:<br/><em>If only </em>…</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><em>Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in <strong>Luna Sangerie</strong>):  I do not claim any rights to <strong>InuYasha</strong> or the characters associated with the anime/manga.  Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al.  I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize</em>.</p><p>~<em>Sue</em>~</p></blockquote></div></div>
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